Matthew Owens is widely known as a writer
as well as composer, performer, and artist. In addition to his having
written The Pope of Fools and The Garden, he is often invited
to write essays, poetry, or speeches for various occasions. The following
are some excerpts from his various works.

A chamber-opera based on Victor Hugo's Hunchback of Notre Dame.
A setting of nine original poems by Matthew Owens, in which Quasimodo
tells his own story, of one, unlovable, redeemed by loving.

(Synopsis)

Victor
Hugo's tale, "The Hunchback of Notre-Dame," familiar to all, is based
on an even more familiar archetype"Beauty and the Beast." Hugo enriches
the story with Shakespearean complexity of plot, and multiplicity of themes,
and casts over it the dark tones of Greek fatalism. Fond of striking
juxtapositions, he creates a tragedy in which nobody gets what he wants,
but the high are made low, and the low find redemption. To accomplish
this, he constructs a "love triangle:" Quasimodo"monster," foundling.
The soul of the Cathedral, grown deaf ringing its bells, yet without place
in the world; Frollo, the Archdeacon, guardian ("father") of Quasimodo,
priest, alchemist; and Esmeralda, the exotic beauty. Esmeralda loves neither
priest nor "bell-ringer," but the "Monster" is elevated by his
encounter with her, while the priest is reduced by his desire to possess,
which becomes a monster within him.

Hugo's
original title was "Notre-Dame de Paris," and indeed the Cathedral is
itself a character in the drama, embracing, in Gothic style, both the
grotesque and the beautiful, so that, in the end, when the "stage" is
strewn with bodies, and shattered illusions, there is radiance,
like the light through a stained-glass windowthe transcendence that
is the purpose of tragedy.

Finally,
this is the story of one, unlovable, redeemed by loving.

My
song-cycle, "The Pope of Fools," is based on the Hugo novel, but
its purpose is not to retell the story; rather, it is to express the spiritual
evolvement of its central character, the hunchback, Quasimodo, To that
end, I have selected for structure certain elements of the original plot
and written a text that would enable Quasimodo to tell his own story.

One
departure from the song-cycle format is the adding of violin and 'cello
to the voice/piano setting. Not only does this allow me to suggest the
weight and complexity of the story, but it lends itself to creating descriptive
effects such as the sounds of wind, rain, birds, and even the sustained
falling glissando signifying the death of Frollo. Equally important
are the bell sounds fom the piano, an emotional commentary throughout.

(Excerpts)

I. PROCESSIONAL

Bend
ye, to the Pope of Fools.
In a wilderness, the Beast must rule.
Friendsand slavesto you I sing
A lullaby of the Cyclops King!

The
Clown is your good shepherd now.
A crown of thorns sits on his brow.
Now Royalty must stand aside,
and Ugliness will have its ride!

IX. QUAZIMODO'S FINAL VISION

Oh
faithful silences of stone,
And mourning bells
Waiting still
All that I have loved is lost!
Tell me what will be, my final friends,
When sorrow ends,
And all that I have known is passed.
No edifice, but mind
No world, but wonder
No fleshits tyrannies, and riches.
The family of illusions,
Whence we all are orphaned,
Seeking, on this plane,
The light and sound of other souls
No brother, but his thoughts,
No gypsy, but her mercy
All else is passing, passing.

Matthew
was engaged to write this essay for the Ernst Bacon Society. In its pages
he explores the nature and significance of one of the twentieth century's
most towering composers. Mr. Owens was a close friend, editor, and performer
of Ernst Bacon's works for 'cello.

(Excerpts)

"Bacon
insisted on the primacy of melody at a time when fragmentation was the
rule among all the arts. He once said about recent music, 'No one knows
how to draw any more!' His sense of the elegant and expressive
melodic shape is just as much a part of his instrumental as his vocal
writing. The performer of a sonata, or trio has the satisfaction of spinning-out
melodies grand and impassionedtender and reflectiveor the
deeply personal, sometimes tragic lines of Bacon's own nature. His rhythms
are the 'rough-hewn,' jazzy, exuberant, forward energies of America. His
counterpoint underscores this energy. In a sense, it populates
his scores, as his poets populate his songs and is always intelligent
and vital. His instrumental music is filled with a physical sense of placeof
geographynot only because many pieces are named after mountains,
or plains, or rivers, but because one can feel in them the outsized monumentality
of the American landscape. Both player, and listener are drawn into this
landscapein reverie and awe.

"Bacon was passionately devoted to the ongoing development of American
culturein this sense his mission is comparable to that of Kodaly,
or Bartok, in Hungaryand yet no one would agree more that American
is always the 'new world'always incorporating, recombining, originating.
As we enter a new era, it is clear that our culturewhatever it isis
profoundly affected by an enormous variety of non-European influences.
There are so many new voices in the air that we are near to a chaos of
cultural resources. Who knows how or when there will be another great
moment of synthesis and the birth of a new tradition? The music of Ernst
Bacon, if it is invited into the mix, will offer an example of the art
of synthesis. But finally, none of this provides the guiding reason for
a definitive publishing effort on Bacon's behalf. It is beauty that makes
the argument. Knowing of this beauty, one cannot let it be buried. Such
an effort, to bring this song to the ear of the future, is on behalf of
us all."

FROM
ELLEN BACON, PRESIDENT OF THE ERNST BACON SOCIETY
"Your essay has helped me a lot in my thinking and my work. It is a beautiful
piece of writing."

THE GARDEN

The
Garden is a comedy, set in the Garden of Eden and ending in the Apocalypse.
It was originally performed in Berkeley by students of The Academy, Berkeley.

(Excerpts)

THE PEACOCK

The
Peacock, in the garden stands,
He listens to the earth's demands,
And even in his proudest dress,
He bows his head to acquiesce,
And spread his splendor on the ground,
And still his heart must make its sound!

Written
for the nintieth birthday gala for the renowned pedagogue, Margaret Rowell,
held at the San Francisco Concervatory of Music. Matthew Owens was invited
to be master of ceremonies. This two-page humorous verse is full of references
familiar to students and friends of the beloved teacher.

(Excerpts)

We
didn't go to workshops,
We didn't go to lessons,
We didn't go to master classes,
We went to "Margaret-sessions"

The
High Priestess who greeted us,
With grace and fresh-cut flowers,
Had probably been tracking down
Her hair-net for two hours.

"Get
your 'cellos out, she'd cry,
"Gavotte and minuette
I'll be listening from the kitchen.
You big bums, now go to it!"

But
rubber snakes, on finger-boards
Were no cause for alarm.
One day she drove a little Chevrolet
The whole way down my arm.

What
began as an invitation to speak at his brother's wedding became a fresh
look at the traditional sacraments of marriage. Its insights, humor and
wisdom caused such interest among those attending the event that it was
printed, and is now in wide circulation.

We
all know that Cupids arrow is just the beginning. But when we say
"we are in love," what does that mean? At first, it seems that
we are two human personalitiesanimated by zeal and preference; but,
as we move closer to love itself, we begin to sense that to be "in
love" means to have met with the miracle of being inside lovetogetheras
Divine being. Generally, the Invocation is the calling upon Spirit to
do its jobto bless this union and all gathered here. But these who
stand together inside the miracle of love hold inside them the ecstatic
realization that spirit blesses without our calling it forth! Maybe that
is why we find lovers so attractiveand all we can do, really, is
to call upon ourselves, individually, and together, to open to this blessing,
and to accept that all of nature, all of humanity, is Divine.

Cultivate
your inner voices. Support each others solitude. Then listen together.
A lot happens when we are not looking. Struggling through the forest the
best we can, by and by we come to a stillness. Everything is different.
This is souls landscapeour own quiet communion; the columns
of light through the trees point to their infinite source. You see each
other as if for the first time. It is thrilling. It is awesome. The unpredictable
majesty of mutual beings threatens the makeshift boundaries we call ourselves!

Howie
Clark is a beloved Berkeley figure. He is known for his enormous humor,
intelligence, warmth, whimsy, endless variety of interests, and magical
abilities with animals. He was also one of the first importers of Chinese
goods after the opening of China. His fiftieth and sixtieth birthdays
were famous occasions in Berkeley, and included readings of these two
poems by Matthew Owens plus musical guests, also including Mr. Owens.

A POEM OF HOWIE

Canto
IHis Smile
The cheshire grin,
Above his chin,
Betwixt each kindly ear,
is SHAMBALA to every word,
He don't want us to hear.

Canto
IIIHis ClothesSong of Claw-Ha*
(Major)
Now, in the month of April
And in the month of May,
And even in the month of June,
He changes every day.
(Minor)
But in the month of January,
February, too,
He only has one suit of clothes
And nothing much to do.

As
we traversed the evening streets
On Berkeley nights
Of waning lights
And college students wearing tights
And skateboard jockies' sidewalk rites,
One question lites upon our brain
And passing through, returns again:
Where is Howie Clark?
This being occupies no space
An ancient smile for a face
Is never really any place
Except as probability suggests a proton's trace
A mathematician's prayersubatomic lace
Is never linearly there.
So where is Howie?

On
Shattucknear University
In full corporeal panoply
Ensconsed at tables piled high
Burgers, dogs, and cold french fries
And condiments (safe gastronomy)
And tomes of Gurdieff rest nearby,
On beds of Chinese poetry
The king of "Where-I-want-to-be"
Emerges! Through the windows paneless view
The glow of Hickory-Pit and stew
Surges: amid the arbitrary
This smile of this cosmic elfWearing his familiar self
His gift to us, the night's largess.
He is here, like the Moon
Who follows us.

For
fifteen years Matthew Owens taught philosophy at The Academy, Berkeley.
His gift to each graduating class was a humorous poem for each student,
which he read aloud at commencement. The presentation became a Berkeley
legend, often drawing people who attended primarily to hear the reading
of the poems. (All fifteen years of commencement poetry soon to be compiled
and available.)

THE JUSTINE LEWIS AWARD FOR DEFYING GRAVITY

Most
people occupy actual spaces
Gravity holding them in their placestheir feet to their faces
With everything in between
Except for Justine.

Who
occupies no factual space at all
But lives in what weve come to call
The OZone*
Such a being,
Everywhere, nowhere, like the moon,
We think shes in a certain spot and then shes not, but soon

Some
nights the only lights her face
Which follows when we walk away
But leaves no trace
And vanishes before the day.